Danger and Desire: A Romantic Suspense Anthology

by Kimberly Kincaid

  Buck fired again, blowing out a third tire.

  “Not a bad shot, you old drunk.” Jason grit his teeth and slapped the gear shift into Drive. The crazy son of a bitch wasn’t shooting to kill, and for a brief second, Jason weighed the possibility of throwing up his hands, announcing that he’d changed his mind. GSI was the perfect job for him, and they should go find a bottle of bourbon to celebrate with.

  Another .50-cal shot tore into a metal side panel, then another as Jason hit the gas, fishtailing onto the driveway. The steering wheel locked and the indicator needle of the three main gages on the dashboard dropped to a flat line. A colorful assortment of dashboard lights was the only thing that worked. Jason punched the steering wheel, snagged an emergency bag from the passenger seat, and rolled out of the SUV until a thicket of briars camouflaged his body from view.

  “All’ight,” Buck called. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

  “Fucking nuts,” Jason muttered.

  Two additional shots took out the remaining tire. Buck staggered to the back of the SUV, holstered the Desert Eagle, and dusted his hands off. “All’ight. Games are over.”

  From Jason’s prone position, they were only getting started. Buck didn’t have the fortitude to wait for his prey to make a move, while Jason could lie in place for days if he needed to.

  Two minutes ticked by. Buck paced the edge of the driveway, half-talking to Jason, half-muttering to himself. Boredom shadowed the man’s features. He leaned against the SUV more often than he paced.

  “Last call,” Buck snickered and waited half a beat. “Guess not.”

  Jason’s cell phone buzzed the moment that nature chose to hold its breath, and the vibrations echoed like thunderclaps hitting a mountain. He silenced the call, crinkling in the underbrush with an announcement of his pinpointed location. Buck pivoted and stumbled, firing the last of his .50-cals like a madman without a target.

  Bark splintered above Jason.

  “Reload.” Buck called that he was out of bullets with a hearty laugh.

  With his placement compromised and his boss drunk and unstable, Jason had no option. He swung his go bag over his shoulders, stayed low, and hauled ass through the thick vegetation that covered the mountain.

  “You still kicking?” Buck sounded as if he’d retrieved a bullhorn. “Up for another round, you cheatin’ traitor?”

  Leaves and branches tumbled along with Jason as he continued through virgin territory. His phone buzzed two more times. He found a downed tree as wide as a garbage can and ducked against it, sweeping for problems. Security cameras and sensors could be anywhere, and at this point, Jason didn’t doubt that Buck would line his property with triggers and trappers.

  Nothing caught his eye, and he wanted to see if Roxana was the person who’d called. Ignoring three calls might spike her anxiety, and hell if he would let that happen today. Jason checked the phone and squeezed his eyes shut. Roxana’s brother. That conversation would have to happen another day. A text message from Hagan appeared.

  How much do you plan to tell her?

  “Everything.” Jason swiped the message off the screen and turned his phone onto silent but caught Hagan’s next text as it popped into view.

  We should be on the same page. If she doesn’t understand, she’ll kill us both.

  That was the truth, but he was too busy to discuss the finer points of a disastrous revelation. He sent a quick message that relayed Hagan’s crappy timing, swore to himself that he would tell Roxana everything, and pocketed his phone.

  The terrain grew steeper. Jason picked his path as best he could, sliding down on his ass more than he wanted to. Branches and briars scratched his face and arms, and Jason let his focus drift to the previous night. He couldn’t believe he’d pulled off the surprise. He picked his way down a steep, rocky section of terrain, laughing at her reaction.

  The ground gave way. He couldn’t correct the misstep or regain his control. Dead leaves and baseball-sized rocks tumbled, gravity pulling them down the mountain. Jason fell too fast. Brush and branches slapped his face and broke when he fought for a handhold, leaving him with little to do except protect his head and roll with the small avalanche of loose ground cover.

  Jason slammed to a stop hard enough to force the air from his lungs. Dead leaves rained over his body, coming to a softer landing than he did. Several seconds passed before he had his bearings and cleared his face. His shoulder blade would have a massive bruise, and one of his legs felt as if it’d twisted unnaturally. On the bright side, he probably wouldn’t have a concussion thanks to the way his go bag had landed under his neck and head.

  He turned onto his side and spit out a mouthful of dirt and blood then took a quick injury inventory. Only his ankle had sustained something he couldn’t simply shake off, and he hoped to hell it was a sprain and not a partial fracture. Jason tested his ability to put weight on the foot and groaned. Probably not broken, but it would definitely be a problem during the remaining time hiking off the mountain.

  Splinting the ankle would help, but he didn’t have anything that would allow him to keep his shoe on. After a quick scavenger, he amassed a small collection of relatively straight branches that wouldn’t easily snap and found a level spot to rummage through his bag for duct tape.

  He diligently secured branches to stabilize his ankle and lower leg, grimacing with the final band of tape. The ankle throbbed, and Jason cursed Buck Baer and the whole damn mountain. How would he explain a busted ankle to Roxana? Maybe this was the push he needed to simply tell her what the hell had been going on.

  Variations of “Babe, I collect information on targets” and “it’s important to understand the difference between a sniper and a mercenary” didn’t bode well. He decided to work on the conversation once he’d figured out how to get out of the Appalachian Mountains and into Louisville on an injured foot, without a vehicle.

  Jason hobbled down and tried conversation starter after conversation starter, finally deciding he might lead with, “I had a shitty day at the office.”

  Blessed with a freelancer’s schedule that lacked impending due dates, Roxana turned her inbox’s away message on and took the entire day off to scroll bridal websites, take style-determining quizzes, and dream what the big day would look like.

  With his build, Jason was born to wear a tuxedo, but he’d be miserable. Worse, if he had on a tux, chances were high she’d be in an equally formal dress. Roxana found her way onto Etsy and lost the remaining morning hours to pages of breath-stealing dresses.

  After a lazy lunch of smoked mozzarella, basil, and tomato on crunchy bread, she painted her toenails a matte lavender and texted friends with the good news, jotting down every suggestion into a temporary notebook that would organize her thoughts until she found the perfect wedding planner notebook.

  The doorbell rang, and her festive vibes fizzled. Roxana dropped her phone onto the desk and let her office chair slowly spin toward the front of the house. Nothing good ever came from a ringing doorbell. In fact, horrible things tended to start with a stranger at her door.

  Despite the large NO SOLICITORS sign clearly displayed like a billboard attached to the storm door, two knocks pounded. The doorbell rang again. Something had happened to Hagan? Jason had been in a car accident? She abandoned her office nook to the side of the kitchen and followed the well-worn path through the narrow house. The distance was no more than a dozen strides, but she might have well been crossing a desert dressed for an avalanche. Each step ripped open painful memories of door-side conversations—notifications—that had shattered her family’s happy existence.

  She held on to the doorknob as though it might give her the strength she always pretended to have and then peeked through the peephole. Relief surged like a hit of dopamine. She laughed away her reaction and open the front door and then the storm door. “Hi. Long time, no see.”

  Spiker, a colleague of Jason’s whom she’d met in passing over the years, stood next to a knockout brunett
e. Both greeted Roxana with tight smiles as if expecting her to make a sudden move.

  The back of Roxana’s neck tingled. “Jason’s not here.”

  “We wanted to talk with you,” Spiker said.

  “Me?” Her forehead scrunched. “Um…” Roxana shifted her gaze to the woman. “We haven’t met.”

  “Vanka.” The woman’s cool voice was as indecipherable as her expression and crisp as her clothing. Despite the sweltering summer day, she wore a white blouse and fitted black jacket with three-quarter sleeves paired with tight, cropped black pants.

  At least Spiker’s dark jeans and stylish button-down shirt seemed breathable, in a business casual way. With his sleeves rolled and sweat shining on his forehead, Roxana appreciated that he wasn’t immune to the heatwave.

  Ingrained manners forced her hand. “Roxana,” she volunteered and focused on Spiker. “Jason didn’t mention a local contract.”

  Spiker edged closer. “Can we come in?”

  Discomfort knotted in her shoulders and had Roxana not recalled meeting Spiker before she would’ve shut the door. Roxana ignored his request and returned her focus on Vanka. “You’re an accountant, also?”

  “A colleague of your boyfriend’s,” the woman said.

  “Fiancé,” Roxana corrected with uncharacteristic bite.

  “That’s interesting.” Vanka’s lips curled in a way that could mean a dozen things.

  None of the possibilities gave Roxana the warm and fuzzies. She gripped the side of the door, unsettled with the way Vanka sized her up as if appraising a horse.

  “Congratulations.” Spiker broke the awkward silence and angled his large build for the door. “Can we come in?”

  She wanted to say absolutely not but sweat glistened on Spiker’s forehead. She would have killed Jason if he were rude to one of her clients. The same rules applied to his coworkers. Even the pretty, possibly bitchy ones. Roxana compromised with her manners. “I can let Jason know you were in town.” Though, wouldn’t they have already reached out to him? “Or—”

  Vanka fluttered her hands in front of her face. “Wow, this heat is something.”

  Roxana bit her lip. “I could bring you a bottle of water—”

  “Thanks.” Spiker gripped the door before she could finish saying for the road.

  Vanka placed her high heel shoe inside the door jam. “The air conditioning feels great.”

  Roxana checked her urge to shove Jason’s co-workers out on their asses and let them inside her house.

  Spiker shut the front door behind them.

  “Lovely home.” Vanka floated on her high heels, sweeping into the living room with the same scrutiny with which she had assessed Roxana. “Is this your only home?”

  Roxana snorted. “Except for our weekend mansion a few miles out in Prospect.”

  Vanka hummed. “I wasn’t aware of that property.”

  “That’s where we keep our Derby horses when they’re not grazing in the backyard.”

  “You’re kidding?” Vanka asked with a straight face.

  “Of course.” Roxana watched Vanka run a finger along a picture frame and check for dust. “We keep the Derby horses outside of Lexington.”

  Vanka wiped her fingers off and tried to make sense of what she saw and what Roxana said.

  “She’s kidding,” Spiker translated.

  Vanka moved from inspecting the dust to studying the pictures on the wall. Then again, she wasn’t really looking at them so much as inventorying what she saw their contents.

  Roxana’s skin crawled. She clapped her hands and forced upbeat pleasantness into her voice. “I’ll get that water, and you can be on your way.”

  “Actually, I’ll just take a seat.” Vanka eyed the seating options as if they weren’t to her standard.

  Roxana’s spine straightened. “Maybe you should come back when Jason’s available.”

  Spiker stepped too close. “Roxana, take a seat.”

  Her fists curled. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “That’s our question.” Vanka smirked. “Tell us what we want to know, and this will be over before you know it.”

  Several versions of “huh, what” almost made it out of her mouth, but Roxana couldn’t manage words with her atomic-level angry confusion.

  Spiker grabbed her arm. Roxana swung and clocked him in the jaw. Pain radiated from her knuckles. “Damn it.”

  His grip tightened, forcing her toward the couch. “Have a seat.”

  Roxana swung again, but Spiker blocked her hand and lofted her onto the couch. Shock burned in her throat, and she stayed on the couch.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Spiker. Just take the hit,” Vanka snapped and stepped toward the couch, inspecting Roxana once again. Satisfied, she turned and lifted an eyebrow at her cohort. “It’s not like we’re dealing with a boxing champ.”

  Spiker ignored Vanka and unholstered a gun from his back. He kept it pointed toward the floor but made his point, re-holstering the weapon when Roxana sat straighter.

  “Now that we’ve adequately scared her.” Vanka eyed Spiker then primly crossed her legs at the ankles as if they’d sat down for afternoon tea. “Let’s get started.”

  “What do you want?” Roxana demanded.

  “Simple.” Vanka smiled. “We want to know everything you know about the man you call Jason Green, the information he has, and your…”

  She didn’t hear much after the man she called Jason Green. As if someone had pressed pause on her life, Roxana’s heart stopped.

  Chapter 4

  Jason hadn’t had much choice but to hitchhike when he finally found a sunbaked state road. With his bag over his shoulder and his thumb in the air, he did his best to look like a vagabond more than something Mother Nature had sneezed down the mountain. Easier said than done. Without the thick canopy of vegetation, the August afternoon heat didn’t check its punches.

  Two vehicles sped by as if the devil were hot on their tail. Finally, a long-bed Chevy with Farm Use plates tapped its brakes and pulled to the shoulder. Jason gritted his teeth through the radiating ankle pain and hustled to the pickup that looked like it hadn’t seen a car wash since the early ’70s.

  The driver’s window cranked down until the man behind the wheel rested his arm over the opening. “How far are you going?”

  “Louisville.”

  The driver made a noise that sounded somewhere between disgust and exhaustion. “Not going that far.”

  “Just need a ride wherever you’re headed.”

  The man hooked his thumb into the air. “Get in.”

  “Appreciate it.” Jason took advantage of the uneven lip between the pavement and gravel shoulder, hiding his limp. The passenger door protested as it was opened and closed. Motor oil and perspiration tinged the hot air, but Jason was off his feet.

  They rumbled off the shoulder. Thankfully, the man seemed uninterested in conversation or questions. Jason did his best to position his injured foot on top of his go bag, and then he relaxed for the first time in hours.

  Twenty minutes passed since the last vehicle passed in the opposite direction. They slowed at a single, flashing yellow light. The old man downshifted and turned at the crossroad. “What kinda bizness did you say you were involved in?”

  He hadn’t said a single word since they took off. Jason kept his line of sight out the windshield. “Sales.”

  They accelerated along the straightaway, and the Chevy’s 350 engine rumbled until the man shifted gears. “Whatcha' sell?”

  Jason wiped the sweat beading at the back of his neck. “Whatcha' need?”

  The old man chuckled. “Had a job like that once. Good while it lasted.”

  Funny, those were his sentiments also. “Where you headed?”

  “Barbourville,” the man offered. “Sister’s daughter works at the Wal-Mart.”

  The prospect of a store stocked with splints, pain relievers, and food made him smile. “That’ll do.”

  Now that he knew
his destination, he could design a plan on the fly. For everything that Jason had planned for, never once had he contemplated the need to physically escape from a GSI location. That he had was confirmation that he’d made the right decision to quit. Jason didn’t want his job to shake Roxana. He’d make the situation right with Buck. Jason would explain what needed explaining, and once cooler heads prevailed, they’d be able to laugh today off. So long as that crazy son of a bitch didn’t set foot anywhere near him again.

  Roxana understood the power that innocent words could play in life-wrecking conversations. In the line of duty. I’m sorry for your loss. No progress. But “the man you call” threatened her fundamental understanding of love, family, and the future.

  Then again, she believed in her fundamentals for a reason. They questioned who Jason was, but she had no reason for her understanding to be shaken. Spiker and Vanka were nothing more than well-dressed home invaders or disgruntled former colleagues. “The man I call Jason Green wouldn’t put up with shit like yours.”

  As if Vanka lived in another dimension, she angled her head, amusement coloring her expression. “Feisty.”

  “Actually, let’s start with you.” Spiker’s lips thinned. “I want to know about your employer.”

  The 180-degree change in topic caught Roxana off guard. “Come again?”

  “Can we skip this part?” Vanka rolled her hand as if they didn’t have all day. “The amount of time we waste on the ‘what, little innocent me?’ act drives me bloody crazy.”

  Roxana raised her eyebrow.

  Spiker reached behind his back then held his gun as his side as casually as he might his phone.

  “He’s pushier than I am.” Vanka shrugged. “To a point. What were you saying about your employer?”

  Roxana could answer without understanding why they wanted her personal information. “Okay.” She ignored the gun and focused on Vanka. “You want to know about my job?”